His Girl From Nowhere. Tina Beckett

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      He curled his hands around the handles of the wheelbarrow and lifted, finding the thing surprisingly heavy. Marcy had boarded her horses at another location, heading out there in the mornings and coming home in the evenings. He’d never had much to do with her profession. Until the night she hadn’t come home at all. And he’d been left to live with the aftermath.

      An aftermath that still rose up to choke him at times.

      Like now?

      Hell. The sooner he got off Patricia Bolton’s property, the better.

      He caught up to her within a minute, making sure to stay on her far side, away from the horse, which trudged forward like it hadn’t a care in the world. You’d never know it was the same animal who’d minutes ago caused him to charge into the pen, his only thought to drag Ms. Bolton out of harm’s way.

      Apparently, she hadn’t needed his help after all.

      “So, what set him off?” He wasn’t sure why he asked. Maybe to try to understand what had happened four years ago.

      She glanced at him. “The way you motioned me out of the cross ties. He’s leery of arms that move in quick jerky motions. Especially if they’re flicked back and then brought down in a rush.”

      That made him pause. “Why didn’t you say something the first time I did it?” She’d just stood there and let him repeat the gesture a second time without saying a word.

      “I thought you were...” She shook her head. “It’s complicated. Just don’t do it again.”

      Not much chance of that, since he’d probably never see Ms. Bolton—or Brutus—again after today. That included those deep green eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. And her cute blonde ponytail that was currently swishing back and forth with every step she took. And her extremely inviting derrière, which seemed custom made for gripping.

      Tightening his fingers on the handles of the wheelbarrow and glad the metal object hid a certain wayward body part, he tried to shift his thoughts back to his patient. “So Doris Trimble thinks you can help Clara.”

      “I think I can too.” She glanced sideways at him and then back ahead.

      There was no hint of conceit or of trying to win him over to her position, just a matter-of-fact response. Did she actually expect him to take that at face value, without any substantive proof? Well, he’d just match her short response with one of his own.

      “How?”

      “There are studies. Testimonials—”

      That word made him snort.

      She drew up short and her horse halted as well, heaving a huge breath and then blowing it out with a blubber of lips, like a child irritated at being kept from his recess.

      “Look, if you’ve already made up your mind, why are you even here?”

      Good question. He could have told Clara’s mother no. Or just signed off on the recommendation form that would allow insurance to cover the therapy. Or, like Patricia had said, he could have just called and had a brief conversation with her. He had tried, as he’d told her, but he couldn’t bring himself to put a child in harm’s way, no matter how uncomfortable coming out here might be for him. Still, she was right. He needed to extend her the same courtesy he expected to have afforded to him. He needed to hear her out.

      “I want Clara to have the best treatment options, so I’m not ready to rule out anything.”

      “And yet when you ask me for data, you make scoffing sounds before I’ve said ten words.”

      “Fair enough. So convince me.” He let the wheelbarrow’s supports touch the ground and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

      “Great.” She shook her head and started back down the path without a word, the horse again moving with her.

      This woman was impossible. He grabbed the handles and followed her. It was really hard to carry on an intelligent conversation while hauling a load of manure.

      She held up the tip of her rope and pointed off to the left. “Dump it over there behind that wooden barricade, if you don’t mind. You can leave the wheelbarrow there. Thanks.”

      By the time he’d done as she asked, she’d released Demon Seed—a better name than Brutus, in his opinion—into a large fenced grassy area.

      Mike arrived just in time to see four other horses making a beeline for the newcomer, tails flowing out behind them as they galloped toward the fence. There was a kind of strange powwow between the animals, accompanied by various sounds, then one of the horses wheeled around and raced away from the group. The others soon followed suit. None of them looked particularly tame.

      “Those are your therapy horses?”

      “Yes. Brutus is the only one not used in the program.”

      “How do you keep them under control?”

      She glanced out at the field. “They know when it’s time to work and when it’s time to play. I can assure you that they take their jobs as seriously as any other kind of service animal.”

      Was she talking about seeing-eye dogs? “But not Brutus.”

      “No. Not Brutus. I told you, he’s a special case. The other horses are teaching him what it means to be a...” She shrugged. “Well, a horse. Sometimes horses—and people—have to relearn what it means to be normal.”

      That was one thing on which they could both agree. He hadn’t quite made it there yet. “So tell me about your program.”

      She waited for a minute then smiled. “You say you want to know about it, but every time I start to talk you shut yourself off.”

      “Sorry?”

      Her fingers touched his left forearm, sending a jolt through him. “You cross your arms. Meaning you’re not going to accept what I have to say.”

      He unfolded his limbs, mostly to dislodge her fingers. “Not true.”

      “No?”

      Okay, so she was right. But he wasn’t sure how to get past it. He could stand there with his arms hanging straight down, but it wouldn’t mean a thing. He’d still be skeptical, and he couldn’t think of anything she could do that would change the way he felt. Marcy had told him one thing and then gone and done another. How did he know Patricia wouldn’t bend the truth to suit her own purposes? “I guess we’re at an impasse, then.”

      “Not quite. I think I might have a solution.”

      He couldn’t think of one to save his life. “I’m listening.” This time he kept his arms loose at his sides, his innards knotting up instead.

      “You have to experience what it’s like to be one of my patients.”

      He thumbed through his mental schedule. “If you’ll give me a specific time, I’ll see if I can make it out to observe—”

      “Oh, no. СКАЧАТЬ